The Documentary
by Devil'sCookies
Summary: There's a house, artistic, pink and twisted, also a museum, actually an oversized brick of sandstone. There's Lilli, dragging a heavy life story. At the end there's Alfred, the filmmaker, whose goal is to make a documentary about the house. Mess ensues. No idea about the rating.
1. The House Wakes Up

**God. Why did I write this? Why did I think it'd be a good idea to upload this? I like the story, really. It's been in my head for a looong time. I actually have no idea if I like the start or not, so I guess I'll have to continue with what I consider bad stuff. Review if you've got something to say. There's a dead baby joke at the end if you read the whole thing. I forgot, hi. This is set in Switzerland (I had forgotten that too). I went to Geneva recently. Quite a dull city, really. 'cept for the Patek Philipe museum or the Rousseau Island, _those_ were nice.  
**

* * *

In the long corridor, the phone was ringing. I answered it. I was sure it was Elizaveta, but it wasn't, instead a complete stranger asked for her.

"She isn't there, may I ask what it is about?"

"Tell her it's about the documentary," he said. It took me some time to adjust to the American accent, but the loud voice was pleasant and easy to understand. The phone call felt suspicious; Elizaveta didn't tell me anything about a documentary - whatever that thing was. I told him,

"Mister, I am sure you have the wrong phone line."

"That can't be! Elizaveta gave me the number! Well, hum, tell her I called!"

It couldn't be a mistake! The stranger had said Elizaveta's full name very distinctly, as if she had sat down with him and made him repeat the correct pronunciation over and over. He also still insisted about the documentary. That... thing must have been about the house, that weird house I lived in with my "aunt" and my "uncle". Actually, the very hallway I was in was upside down, the ceiling on the floor, the floor on the ceiling. I hated walking over those lights; I burnt myself, once. Even the phone I hung up was upside down. The house was a museum, too. This week, we had one group of tourists come over and visit. Of course, _I_ was the guide and toured the house only on appointment.

I was about to walk away to my room when it rang again. "Sir, I will tell my aunt, do not worry!" I said in an expressionless voice to the other person calling.

"I see Alfred called you."

"Hi, Aunt Eva."

I called her like that because I hated her original Hungarian name, so confusing.

"I'm glad I don't have to explain all about the motion picture! I'm sure Alfred will make a great job out of it. Anyway," she breathed out, "I'm going to be late tonight. Roderich wanted to make sure I came to his concert. We'll probably be there by 10. Bye, sweetheart."

_Aunt Eva, of indeterminate age, born in Hungary, legal guardian since almost two years ago, married for ten years to an Austrian pianist. Came to Switzerland to look after her own aunt's legacy, a twisted house everybody got lost in. Has an unhealthy obsession with something not precise. Has "good" ideas that always backfire. Knows brother; not family._

_Roderich Edelstein, almost 40, born in Austria, other legal guardian since almost two years ago, married for ten years to his Hungarian agent. Came to Switzerland chasing after her. Likes to play on the crystal piano in the living room at any hour of day and night. Knows brother; not family._

Those were the two persons I lived with. With our nearest neighbour, a quiet Japanese gentleman, they were the only people I had seen in two years. Quite enough to go mad. Actually, it was what my life would become in the following weeks (quite mad), because of a gentleman named Alfred. Peace disturbed by an American storm. At least, that's what I thought when Eva came in. I had no idea that much time passed.

I heard a lot of noise downstairs, Roderich coughing, water running, the distant rumbling of a car, Elizaveta coming up the stairs.

"Dear Lord, you're there Lilli? Good. I'm leaving everything about the documentary up to you! Gotta go get my suitcase!" Eva walked as fast as her tight trousers permitted her.

"Wait," I said. "Aren't you going to stay here?" She turned around and joined her hand in a pleading way.

"Please, Lilli! I really want to go tour Europe with Rod! Please!"

I let her go. At that time, I actually felt as if I were the guardian, which was accurate. When my brother asked them to take care of me, he knew it would be backwards, but legally he had no choice. I had no idea.

When she came back from her bedroom, she told me not to burn the house down, not to kill anybody, not to anger the Americans. If I needed anything, I would go see our neighbour Kiku. She walked out of the back door as if we'd never see each other again.

The next day, I started (joyfully!) my main activity for the two weeks to come: the general cleaning of the house-museum. Yaaay. I spent the morning planning my moves. The first rooms would be the kitchen and the dining room, generally messy and dirty, as Eva did the cooking. I usually did the cleaning anyway, when I wasn't showing tourists around.

I got caught up more and more in my work, using it for meditation purposes. A loud knock on the kitchen's door snapped me out of it. It was Kiku, the neighbour, proposing his help! I let him in, generally flattered by the fact he came to help.

_Honda, Kiku, obviously in late 20s, early 30s, born in Japan, established in Switzerland for 6 years previous, learnt German after. Came there by pure chance. Widower of a local who passed away 2 years previous. Cooks well enough; likes to clean. Never met brother; has weird ideas of him._

He had brought his own rags and apron and soon we were discussing about cleaning and the movie. He was probably more excited about the Storm than I was. I spent two weeks working with him, making the house beautiful and sparkly (the house was huge and pink, three floors of labyrinth and windows). In exchange of his help, I would help him clean up his house and his late wife's things. He said she we were the same size and that her clothes should fit me.

In my plan, outside was last. Gardening, weeding, all that jazz, except in the field beside the driveway, supposed to be left wild. The two weeks went by so fast I had almost forgotten why I was doing all of this. It did surprise me when one day he froze on the other side of the patch we were working on. I asked him, "What's going on?"

"The director's going on, that's what, Miss Lilli."

I heard Kiku run away as stealthily as surprise permitted him, although I didn't see him. That director, tall, young, but not slim, offered a much more interesting show, simultaneously banging on the front door and ringing the doorbell that had never worked.

* * *

**Q: What's the difference between a pile of dead babies and a Ferrari?**

**A: There's no Ferrari in my garage.**

_What were you expecting?_

**Also, I put a line under this. I have no idea how to remove it. Sorry 'bout that. Sorry also about the fact that my first language is French, and I pretty much wrote this with the tip of my fingers, absolutely _hating_ each word as it came out on paper/the screen. My heart's racing right now. I'm publishing this!**

**The writing quality will improve with the next chapter. I promise.  
**


	2. Carbonated Cheese Tap Water

**Hey! Sorry that it took so long! First, I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed, or even read, the first chapter. I hope this one is a little bit better, although a bit short. I cut it at an awkward place, though. Last time, I promised a better quality in the language. I hope it will please you. I hope a lot. I also take back what I said about Geneva. The contemporary art museum was awesome, and they have a two-headed turtle at the national history museum. They've got macarons, chocolate, cheese fondue, FRENCH LEMONADE (I'll tell you all about French lemonade next time!), trams, and fountains. But still, Brussels and Dublin and Ottawa and Stratford will always be the best.**

* * *

Summer that year was incredibly hot, messy, and awful. Spring was over, and most of the tiny colorful flowers in the garden had died, leaving only green to look at. The sky was a dull blue, fat white clouds floated lazily, insects buzzed noisily… I hated insects, and I hated summer. At that time, I had long hair, keeping it undone was torture.

The first thing Alfred asked me for was water. No names exchanged, no polite hellos, simply a demand for water. "It's inside," I said. Alfred tried to open the front door. It stayed shut.

"Obviously, it doesn't work," someone else said. I hadn't even seen him. He was red and sweaty, but still paler than his brother. Speaking must have cost him an unspeakable effort, but getting inside was more important than staying invisible.

We walked to the other side of the house in silence, the heat replacing any discussion we could have. It filled everything. I pushed open the kitchen's door and was immediately welcomed by the cold air of inside. Alfred immediately babbled out about how it was nice we had A/C, and how the kitchen was nice, how it was built was original (the kitchen was like a kind of slope, the lowest point at the table, the legs uneven as to stay straight) and how he'd prefer soda. There was no soda. He settled for carbonated water from the fridge hidden as just another cupboard ("That's original!"). The other man simply wanted tap water. I showed them the table. They sat on one side, me on the other. It's only once sat down I realized my hands and my clothes were full of dirt.

After sipping silently on his carbonated water for two seconds, Alfred broke the silence. "My name's Alfred! I'm glad to meet you. I'm sure the movie will be a nice experience. You've got anything to eat? Anyway, this is Matthew. He's my brother. He works with me. Where's Eva?" He finally paused.

"Hum… She left two weeks ago with Roderich. She hasn't come back since." Back then, I was still a little soft-spoken, and speaking loudly was a costly effort, much like it must've been for Matthew. I talked as fast as possible, without raising my voice, and I had – obviously – an accent. For someone used to big sounds like Alfred, I must've sounded like a squeaky mouse.

"What?" I glanced quickly at Matthew, who stared deeply at his glass, his cheeks red, but not because of the sun.

"She's somewhere else," I almost screamed. "I'm supposed to help you, with the movie."

"Oh. But, aren't you a bit young for that, I mean… Anyway, what's your name?" Matthew brought the palm of his hand to his face by reflex, and, when he noticed it, changed the gesture as brushing off sweat. It had dried a long time ago.

"My name is Lilli," I said slowly, still summoning the courage to tell him I was almost seventeen. I spat it out, regretting the words as they left my lips. Alfred's smile froze. He still looked contented. I continued stammering about how I was old enough to work, Alfred not even half-realized his mistake and Matthew regretted coming, seeing as he was still contemplating his glass.

"Hum, well then. Do you have a last name?" Well, for trying to ease things, that was a bad start. It was probably the subject I avoided the most back then.

"No." I just didn't know what to use. Brother's last name? He had "abandoned" me. My adoptive mother's name? Never. What about Aunt Eva's name? Or Uncle Roderich's? I wasn't close enough to them. Legally, though, I went by my brother's last name.

"Then, where do you come from?" Alfred looked right into my eyes.

"Liechtenstein." I grimaced inside at the thought of the stupidity of my short answers.

"Haha! Easy: Lilli Stein!" I was on the border of tears, but I needed to talk, needed to get Alfred to talk and for all three of us. At this very moment I was convinced the documentary would be a flop, that the painful introduction was useless, that I was the worst person to have ever walked the earth. Obviously, I wasn't thinking about Hitler or Stalin or Gengis Khan then.

"Why did you come, today?" Hopefully Alfred's answer would be long enough.

"I wanted to meet you before the shooting started. Tomorrow, I'm coming back. I'd like to visit the house. I thought I could get that done today, but it looks like it'll be too much."

"Well, that's great! There's no one in the world who knows the house better than me! Well, maybe the artist, but she's dead, now. There are tourists that will come, in two days. Maybe you could wait until then?" Alfred's expression changed slightly. His mouth was slightly agape; his eyes were rounder than two saucers. I hated the fake cheery voice I had used, I hated my imitated enthusiasm. How could Alfred possibly think this is a good idea? I immediately worried about having made a mistake, Matthew confirmed my worst thoughts.

"We can't wait till then," he mumbled. "We've got delays to respect." Alfred seemed a bit shaken up and said,

"Of course, of course." He tipped his glass back and drank the rest of the water in a single swallow. He looked in extreme pain for the next minute or so. Then, he looked up to me, his eyes all watery, and asked in a tiny voice, "You sure you've got nothing to eat?"

I had cheese. About five thousand kinds of cheese, moldy cheese, smelly cheese, soft cheese, processed cheese, feta cheese, foreign cheese. I loved cheese. Roderich and Eva knew that. Brother also loved cheese. _Don't think about Brother_. Alfred jumped on the cheese, followed soon by Matthew, who looked glad to have something else than staring to do.

Seeing them eat made me suddenly crave for a piece of the cheese. I cut a tiny one for myself. The next minutes were mostly composed of cheese-eating. It disappeared easily.

"That was good. Thanks," Matthew said. "We should probably go back down to the village." Alfred simply ignored him. Maybe he couldn't hear his brother.

"Who was it that ran away, outside?"

"Mr. Honda, the neighbor." Then, a bunch of other questions were asked, mainly about the kitchen and the house in general, cheese slowly disappeared, the sun set. It was pink and yellow and orange everywhere when I finally waved the brothers goodbye. They drove down the slope merrily, the field on a side, the gardens on another. I wasn't even hungry anymore.

I hardly could wait until the next day. I planned the visit in my mind, rehearsing what I'd say, changing the order of the rooms. I imagined the brothers' reaction to some pieces, and how I would answer their questions, and what I'd make them for lunch, and I fell asleep.

* * *

**Usually, if you make it here, it means you've read the whole thing. I'm glad. I hope you liked it. I'm publishing this at, like, 11pm, but I'm tired of this chapter (the real Hetalia fun comes later) and I want to get over with it. It looks OK to me. I'll probably come back and edit it.**

**EDIT: I did! :D**


	3. The Rain Is Dead, Long Live the Rain

**Hello dear readers. How are you? I'm good. I may or may not receive a shipment of French lemonade this weekend, depending on the Canadian customs' mood (Oh, Canada!). French lemonade is good. It's transparent and carbonated and really sugary, so it's quite different from the usual lemonade. Actually, it hardly tastes like lemon. **

* * *

In the morning, I rose up early, surprisingly fresh. My room was delightfully cold: the sky had broken down during the night and rain had cooled off the interior. It would be a perfect day for a visit. I was impatient to see the brothers again.

I ate quickly and noticed how the level of food in the fridge had decreased. I'd have to go grocery shopping. After that, I showered and dressed, put a drop of Aunt Eva's perfume on my wrists and waited by the kitchen door for them to come in. I waited maybe for a whole hour, without moving a muscle, smile frozen in the hope of seeming welcoming. But then, they did not come. The day warmed up, and I felt the sun over the hills. I'd have run over if it wasn't for the dreadful prospect of missing Alfred and Matthew.

I'd put on the most feminine dress I possessed, something chiffon with a cotton collar. Eva had said it looked great on me. The ocean tone complimented my eyes, she said. After I'd come to live with her and Uncle Rod, she had bought me new clothes, probably to say sorry.

I think I wasn't so shy back then, especially when I was around Brother. But Eva and Rod had come basically in the middle of the night, telling me to follow them, that they were sent by my brother. And we left the place. I felt lonely and desperate. I had seen them only once before, they were strangers, and before I knew it, _I_ was gone. I could only say single-word sentences, any more and I broke into sweats. I was hostile, and in the first few days, I could only cry. Eva left me mostly alone, as every time she came near me, I rejected her, although the only thing I truly desired was company.

I was starting to feel quite depressed (_Don't think about Brother!_) and Alfred and Matthew still weren't coming.

My brother always said never to trust unpunctual people. His almost military lifestyle was regulated like clockwork, him working on watches from morning till night and all that stuff. His views on the world were rigid, his face was always hard, but sometimes he softened. He cared for his watches and clocks like someone else for children or kittens. I think, maybe, he cared for me the same way. What am I saying? If he'd felt I was useless, he'd sent me back to my adoptive mother, a soulless witch. He was so young! Being with him was absolutely blissful. I felt like a tiny flower, developing quietly in the shadow of a strong, tall tree. Some bad-mouthed villagers had accused us of sharing more than simple affection. Accuse all you want, I can truthfully deny that anything else had happened.

But I digress. I was still sitting in the kitchen, deep in my thoughts. Sun streamed through the windows, those big, tall windows I'd scrubbed spotless days earlier. I glanced at the clock on the wall, and jumped as I saw the time! Already that late!? No wonder my stomach was grumbling! I hastily set up the ingredients for my lunch, anxious of the brothers' arrival. I just cut up a pasta salad and ate as fast as I could. I regretted it. I guessed they wouldn't arrive until way later. I thought about everything I missed from my old life.

_And then the doorbell rang._

I ran around the corner of the house, absolutely delighted, and saw Alfred standing there.

"It's a really nice day," he screamed. "Why don't we start by the gardens?" I nodded, then remembered he couldn't see me well.

"Okay!" We met up beside the patch Kiku had left so suddenly the previous day. I saw Matthew too, surprisingly pale. "Hi," I said to both of them. We stood there, without speaking. I kind of wanted an explanation for their lateness, but at the same time, I wanted the gardens over with.

Gardening was more of Aunt Eva's field. Like her husband lost himself in the piano, she thought gardening very therapeutic. Sometimes I helped her, sometimes I didn't. I loved to sit under trees (remember what I said about the flower?) and watch grass grow, but getting all dirty in it wasn't my thing. I preferred cleaning.

Again Alfred's blue eyes scanned me up and down, and I shrunk instinctively. To hide my embarrassment, I stepped into the high labyrinth of plants. "It is a labyrinth, really. It follows the rule, with a tiny twist: if you always turn on the same side, you arrive at the center. She (we all knew I was talking about the artist) loved labyrinths, twist and turns, hiding places." I opened a door, on my left, and led them through it. Only I didn't have to bend to go through it. I skipped over some steps and we arrived in front of a tiny beige brick house with a blue roof and red, sunny flowers under the windows. I ignored all the passages to my right. At every corner flowers burst out of the ground in explosions of lavenders and lilacs, crimsons and scarlet, indigos and ultramarines, canaries and lemons, vibrant and dull greens, creamy whites, benches and tiny angels and flamingoes, and orchids, and mayflowers, and… I talked about everything I knew, from what I'd read from the artist's sketchbooks, and from what Aunt Eva had told me. Slowly, I started to mind less about them, I spoke louder. I could almost see Brother's shadow hanging behind them. I glanced back, sometimes, to support a point. Every time, Alfred seemed further away. I hadn't noticed my hurried pace, lost in my thoughts. I was glad I'd put on boots before going out.

"See how the maze blends in with the forest?" This meant we were near the center. I could see it in my head: swing set, flowers, a giant bird cage. Like I said earlier, it had rained that night. The ground was kind of muddy, and I walked fast.

I slipped. Stupidly, I slipped. There wasn't even a root. I was simply walking too fast.

In a blink of an eye, Alfred was at my side, my elbow safely surrounded by his hand. I looked into his eyes, surprised and panicked, and he looked into mine, probably as puzzled. For a terrific instant I was able to see thousands of thoughts going through those gorgeous eyes, and I knew he could see just as much into mine. Of all those sentences, including "Your dress suits you too well" and "Your passion makes you beautiful", he chose the most insignificant. "Be more careful, next time," he said.

"Yes," I responded under my breath. I was locked into place by his gaze, but I had to move, to go away. I broke my elbow free and averted my eyes. "Let's go on."

I talked and walked slower, my gestures were more restrained, and I spoke with my usual tone. The maze's breath-taking center seemed bland and the sun was too bright. I hated myself for my enthusiasm. "Thanks," Alfred said. "I saw all what I wanted to see. Let's go back to the house."

"Yes." I could feel Alfred's eyes on me, but I wouldn't dare to look back at him. I was probably making up stuff anyway. We walked side to side without speaking. My hands burned. I imagined his in mine, and immediately wished those thoughts would go away. Finally, the edge of the world came to us. I saw the car Alfred had rented, and then he turned to me.

"I brought sandwiches in case I got kind of hungry. I'm kind of hungry, right now. Want to join me?" I wanted to say. Alfred wanted me to say yes. Reluctant (but was I?), I accepted. Alfred told me to sit on the steps in front of the fake door while he went to get the sandwiches. I regretted my choice already. Alfred came back with some kind of picnic basket and a battery radio. "I can't live without the radio," he said. "I thought we could listen to it while we ate," he said.

Even nowadays, I associate sandwiches with the radio. Alfred had made ham-cheese-cucumber sandwiches and they tasted awful. Some kind of nostalgic program was playing. An old song in German finished and another, in French (which I could not understand) started.

"_Il suffirait de presque rien / peut-être dix années de moins / pour que je te dise je t'aime…_ " (1)

"Do you understand?" Alfred asked.

"No. I never learnt French."

"Me neither. I mean, it's not like I _need_ it or something."

I kind of liked the melody. It was soft and the man's voice was nice and strong. If only I knew…!

"_Vraiment de quoi aurions-nous l'air? / je vois déjà les commentaires / elle est jolie / comment peut-il encore lui plaire? / elle en printemps lui en hiver…_" (2)

And so, I deliberately ignored two things as I waved Alfred good-bye. First, the warning the song gave us. Second, Matthew. I realized it a second too late. Alfred might have thought, seeing me run after him, arms waving, that I was finally falling in love with him, and it was my way to say good-bye. He probably looked at his rear-view mirror, thought it was cute, and sped away.

Poor Matthew.

* * *

**Don't worry, he doesn't die.**

**I'm really lazy but I'll translate as well as I can the parts I used of the song here:**

**1- "_It would take almost nothing / maybe ten years less / so that I can tell you I love you..._"**

**2- "_Really, what would we look like? / I can already hear the comments / she's pretty / how can she like him? / her in spring him in summer..._"**

**THERE ARE PEOPLE OUT THERE BETTER THAN ME AT THIS STUFF, BUT I CAN ALWAYS TOP GOOGLE TRANSLATE**.

**Song sung by Serge Reggiani. Title:** _Il suffirait de presque rien_**.**

**ON THIS NOTE, THANKS.**


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